


Ugly Boy

by AmyArachne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fighter!Sebastian, It's a classic fragmented look at the development of their relationship, Jim is just Jim, Jim likes them, M/M, Sebastian has scars, Some descriptions of fighting and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4678043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyArachne/pseuds/AmyArachne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spotlight sweeps over him again, and he grins beatifically, severed lip pulling up with the movement, knowing without seeing that the camera will give a close up of his face. Once Sebastian had been handsome, pretty even, with a strong jaw line and sculpted features, but two years running into IEDs and getting into sticky situations has all but contorted his face into a sort of monstrosity. Half blind in his left eye with a scar running from forehead to chin, the left side of his face scarred and stiff from an amateur arsonist who got lucky, the marks of a violent life had left themselves all over Sebastian’s body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ugly Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I got kind of tired of always seeing Sebastian as this pretty boy handsome guy with a couple of tasteful scars. I'm all about that deformed Seb, violent on the outside as he is inside. I can see Jim liking that a lot too. I listened to 'Ugly Boy' by Die Antwoord on repeat while writing this. Lyrics are from there. 
> 
> Enjoy. And feel free to drop me a note at theonlyheir.tumblr.com

 Ugly Boy

  
~~

‘ _Oh, I love my ugly boy. So rough and tough, don’t care about anything but me.’_

_~~_

“And in this corner!”The announcer is loud, booming through the open arena, reaching to each and every corner of the private booths. The voice is grating, but it’s better than the low, rumbling bass that will begin once the fight starts, so Sebastian enjoys it while he can. The blond rolls his shoulders, bare and slumped inwards slightly, downplaying his own physique.

“We have, at 6’5 and 200 pounds,” The spotlight switches over to him, highlighting the aspects the announcer was talking about, along with the deep white scars that criss cross over his chest and around his shoulder to join the ones tearing up the landscape of his back. Sebastian doesn’t look towards the cameras, doesn’t obviously flex his arms or play up for the camera. “Sebastian ‘The Tiger’ Moraaaaaaan!” His last name is drawn out into a cry of victory. There is no big cheer, those who attend these fights are much too rich to cheer. Instead there is a polite applause and already his number is growing. 

Big green numbers flashing up behind Sebastian’s head, one hundred thousand, two, three, four, stopping at seven for now. Fairly low, really, but this is a new ring, he doesn’t have much of a reputation here yet. And he’s not putting on much of a show, unlike his opponent. 

The other man is broader than Sebastian is, obviously much heavier, with a thick neck and weighed down with bulging muscles. Right now the other is flexing his arms, throwing up grins and winks, and when his name is called out; he lets out a roar that almost drowns out the announcer. Sebastian barely resists rolling his eyes, but he knows that won’t win him any favors. And he needs his twenty percent. Fighters were only a small part of this process, and Sebastian only gets a fifth of the money he wins with a victory. And if he loses, well, a dead man can’t exactly grieve an empty wallet. 

Both men are handed their weapons of choice, his opponent (Sebastian decides to call him Chump) wraps his thick fingers around a large, sharp looking machete of some sort. His opponent is oddly handsome, few scars littering his chest and arms in a very sculpted sort of way, as if he made sure the only marks that stayed were ones that wouldn’t actually hurt the look of his physique. 

Sebastian has to turn towards his assigned handler for a moment, taking the moment to hide his grin from the cameras. The adrenaline has started pumping through his blood, hairs on the back of his neck standing up. As his cheeks stretch for the smile he feels the scars running down the right side of his face being tugged, the stiff skin resisting the pull. His hands are relatively normal, despite the deep red lines cutting into the soft dip between his index, middle and ring finger on both of them. His handler (who takes a ten percent cut) hands him his own signature weapon, two curved blades, each as long as his forearm. He tests them in his hands for a moment, as if measuring the weight, before slipping into fighting stance. 

The spotlight sweeps over him again, and he grins beatifically, severed lip pulling up with the movement, knowing without seeing that the camera will give a close up of his face. Once Sebastian had been handsome, pretty even, with a strong jaw line and sculpted features, but two years running into IEDs and getting into sticky situations has all but contorted his face into a sort of monstrosity. Half blind in his left eye with a scar running from forehead to chin, the left side of his face scarred and stiff from an amateur arsonist who got lucky, the marks of a violent life had left themselves all over Sebastian’s body. 

He might be an ugly fucker, but it’s a hell of an intimidation tactic and Sebastian’s grin is a little more honest as Chump finally gets a good look at him and seems to pause in his cocky showmanship. It’s a funny thing, seeing the result of someone who’s been to the edge of death and back so many times, Sebastian speaks of the reaper like an old friend. And it always puts those with less familiarity off balance. Sure, everyone who is put into this ring knows full well there’s a fifty/fifty chance they die in this arena, but it takes a special sort not to be scared of the least pleasant half of that coin toss.

The music starts off softly, swelling as the bell rings, into a low, filthy beat. Loud in the ring, but barely audible in the stands, to give the fighters a way to tune out what’s around them, and disorient weaker ones. It might be something you hear in a club, Sebastian notes with a laugh to himself, and wonders if there’s any club in London that’s seen as much blood as this arena has. 

The fighters circle each other for a moment or so, but Sebastian isn’t fond of playing defensive so he makes the first move, faking left before going straight in, feeling his opponent’s machete graze his shoulder before he swings one blade in a tight half circle and gets the fucker right under the ribs. He backs off again, adjusting his grip so the blood dripping down his arm doesn’t get to his hand. Holding on to weapons with hands slick with blood is never a good thing when one wants to avoid death. 

It’s just a shallow cut, probably won’t even add to his collection of scars, and the hit he’d gotten in was much more effective. Chump is using his free hand to clutch at the long, thin line that Sebastian cut into him, looking much worse than it actually is given how much blood was pouring from it. The trick is to never go for the painful hit first, you want to put on a good show, to make it bloody and vicious so the bets on your head to win will go higher and higher, and only when you need to, go in for the kill. It’s a dangerous game, a lot of opponents wanting to end it quickly and reduce the time that their fifty percent chance hung in the balance. 

Sebastian grins wide at the other, watching as Chump collects himself, steps forward and then to the side a little. Strong, yes, but slower than Sebastian. More concerned with keeping his face intact and surviving more than putting on a show and _winning,_ and that’s the thing that will get him killed. The thought comes to Sebastian with a little excited shiver up his spine. He’s honed in on it, the weakness he can exploit. The fact that Chump keeps his left arm a little too low (which allowed for Sebastian to get his first hit in) or that his stance is too solid to dodge quickly enough is almost irrelevant. Those are things anyone with half a mind can see, things that can ever be faked to lure the opponent into thinking they have the advantage. 

To know someone’s motivation, someone’s concern, that’s the advantage Sebastian will ruthlessly exploit. So he steps forward a little, shoulders rolling a bit and he watches as Chump steps forward too, it hasn’t been more than thirty seconds since Sebastian got his wound. When Chump gives a roar (which is a stupid thing to do in the first place) and lunges, Sebastian takes two quick steps back and jabs out with his left blade, not enough to really sink it in, just the first couple inches into Chump’s stomach, piercing his kidney. Not entirely, not enough to make Chump fall over, just enough to remove the risk from the fight. The wound doesn’t even bleed that much, but the instant disorientation from Chump is telling enough that Sebastian hit his mark. 

From then on it’s a cat and mouse game, with Chump’s brain not receiving the proper bloodflow because of the puncture; it’s all he can do to stay on his feet. Sebastian and he dance like old friends, a cut here, a swipe there until Chump is bleeding all over, Sebastian having sustained a few cuts of his own but nothing to that extent. It takes nearly ten minutes for Chump to lose sense, just wanting the fight to end quickly, something in him sensing that he doesn’t have much longer with his kidney struggling to keep pumping blood. He wouldn’t die, just fall unconscious, but in this ring that’s as good as death.

Sebastian is ready when Chump charges, easily sliding into a diagonal stance and sliding out of range for the big, clumsy swing. He brings one blade up vertically, the other held protectively to guard his own middle from being hit, a cautious move but not a necessary one as he hits his target and the blade goes right through the vulnerable, meaty section under Chump’s chin, right up through his jaw and into his brain. Sebastian extracts the knife within a split section, and the gush of blood soaks half of the arena as Chump slumps down. He twitches for a long moment, Sebastian stepping back and wiping blood off his forehead with a sweaty forearm, before falling still and listening to the bell ringing. Announcing his victory.

Sebastian doesn’t grin anymore, or show off for his audience, just hooks his blades through their holsters and slips off stage silently, the music still thrumming annoyingly in his ears. He exits with one last glance at his number. One million, three hundred thousand, which makes his twenty percent cut two hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Not bad. It’ll pay the rent and food for the next few months, and have some left for his most common of vices. Pretty, expensive boys and girls and enough opiates to put an elephant on its back, not to mention his indulgences. Some men collect stamps, others collect cars, but Sebastian enjoys his guns. He probably won’t be able to get the one he has his eye on with this paycheck but if he squirrels some away, the next one will be more than enough to get his newest addition, plus a few scopes. 

He heads down the dark hallway to the fighters rooms, idly hearing the music fade out as Chump’s body is escorted off. He’s cleaned and stitched up by the Ring’s medics, his pay handed to him in cash filled briefcase, and after he changes into clean clothing and tucks his bloody weapons away in their leather bag, he’s on his way. His t-shirt is soft and loose, making sure not to press on the bandages on his shoulder or side, and his leather jacket hugs his frame while leaving him enough movement to feel comfortable. It’s high quality, Sebastian does have a little vanity and stylish, utilitarian clothing is more often than not found with bigger pricetags. The soles of his army boots are worn in well, and his dark jeans tuck into them. Combat ready, a habit he never tries to shake. No point in it. 

Despite being exhausted, he walks to the underground instead of taking a cab, adrenaline gone from his system, leaving him wanting a nap. Flashing his Oyster Card, he waits along all the other citizens of London. How many of them are content little home bodies, just wanting to get home and kiss their partner and eat some dinner? How many of them assume on a default that they’ll die from old age surrounded by the people they love? How many of them have any inkling that in the basements of factories and fancy hotels and the most exclusive club in the UK, wait rings of people fighting to the death for the amusement of the affluent and bored? Sebastian smirks at the thought, eyes slipping to a pretty young thing in a yellow jacket, who flinches when she realizes he had caught her staring. He lifts his mouth into a smile to make a full, horrifying display of his ripped cheek and exposing too many teeth. She takes a couple steps away and keeps her eyes focused on the ground now and not moving. 

It’s nothing new, Sebastian’s scars aren’t intimidating and proof of his power out here in the public London air, as much as they are horrifying and disgusting. Sebastian doesn’t wear his dogtags in public, doesn’t want that look of sympathy war veterans sometimes get. He’s made something of himself, for fuck sake, he’s not a pitiable homeless man with PTSD. 

He steps into the carriage as it opens, taking the seat that has its back against solid metal, not glass, and he can see all the entrances of this compartment. No music or book to read, just his leather pouch concealing his blades on his back and his money on his lap. No one wants to mug a guy who looks like the devil himself, after all. Instead he people watches, sorting people into categories. Mothers, fathers, businessmen. Addicts, drifters, people hiding in plain sight. The girl in the yellow jacket decides to take another car, and as usual no one meets Sebastian’s eyes. Easy enough. 

He gets off at his stop and heads up to the top floor of his building. With his pay he can afford a loft in the centre of London and he enjoys the luxury, enjoys lounging in the morning with not a scrap on and looking down at everyone below. With a twist of his key in the handle, he’s inside, unlacing his boots so he can pad in socks to the spare room, which he uses to house his collection, and drop off his blades there. He’ll clean them in the morning and sharpen them until they can cut through tendons like butter. But right now he wants some scotch, some mindless television and a good, long sleep. 

There’s a safe in the wall behind his couch where he puts his cash payments, he’ll bring it to the bank tomorrow. Or at least, that’s the plan until he notices that the light in the living room is on. Which means someone came in or is in his home. Sebastian rarely turns any lights on, except in the kitchen at night, he knows every inch of the flat with his eyes closed. He left well before the sun went down, so there was no chance he’d accidentally left the light on. 

He opens the drawer in the small table in his front hall and extracts a handgun and silencer, fastening it on as he makes his way slowly towards the light. His steps are silent, his breath quiet, listening for any noise and… Is that singing. No, humming. Whoever is in his flat obviously isn’t aware of Sebastian’s presence of or concerned about getting caught given they’re humming an unfamiliar tune. 

Are they there for the cash? A pissed off opponent? Someone who bet against him? An old army connection turned enemy? Everything is too neat for it to be a common robber. He breathes deeply before rounding the corner quickly, gun pointed at the source of the noise. 

Sebastian registers the lack of threat first (No gun, no offensive stance, no discernible weapons), and then the delicate of crossing legs (male, creases at the knees), followed by the fancy suit (high end, tailored). The soldier gets to the face last, that is to say, within a split second of rounding the corner, and startles to see an easy smile on that pale face. Slicked back hair, neatly trimmed and polished fingers curled into the leather back of Sebastian’s couch. 

“Well, evening Sebastian. Why don’t you put down that gun and we can have a nice chat.” 

And that’s how Sebastian Moran meets Jim Moriarty for the first time. 

~~

_‘Respect me, receive my protection, I’m always right by your side like a weapon.’_

_~~_

The jobs are frustratingly easy. It’s been months since he put pen to paper and signed the contract that Jim had slid across his coffee table. His life has been in danger about once and even then was pushing it, just one rogue man taken out in seconds, that was the closest thing to a proper thrill Sebastian had in months. 

It was driving him properly mad. Not to say he wasn’t busy, no, he barely had any time free time at all. Go here, meet this person, stand behind me and look intimidating. There’d been plenty of killing, but most of it was about at thrilling as taking a quick nap. Jim favoured execution style killings, and seemed to get off on watching Sebastian snap people’s necks, with how often he had his newest pet do it. 

Sebastian decides not to delude himself, he’s very much a pet, with a collar and everything. He’d found it on his kitchen table one morning after a particularly fun night with Jim. All Jim need do is give him a little tug and he follows obediently. But it’s getting more and more difficult when Jim isn’t giving him anything that’s worth his level of skill. He makes a good trophy, a scarred and dangerous guard dog to snarl and bite on command, but the itch under his skin is starting to get too bad, starting to make it harder to think properly. He needs his rush, needs his fix. 

So he texts Jim that he’s taking a few hours off and signs up for the Ring. They’re eager to have him back, even offer him ten percent more for his cut, but he waves it off. He doesn’t so much get a salary as he just gets whatever he wants. Jim bought him a new flat weeks ago, whenever a new sniper model came on the market (or not, Jim had much more powerful contacts in the military than Sebastian) Sebastian had it within the week. His cupboards were always stocked and his closet was filled with everything from designer socks to tuxedos worth more than a moderately sized flat in London. 

He agrees to his usual twenty percent and unsheathes his blades for the first time in what feels like an age. He spends a good half hour sharpening and cleaning them, doing a light warm up, before stepping up on to stage. He had decided to go a little more showy for this fight, get the most out if it. He has the distinct impression that Jim won’t be so fond of this particular move, so he’s going to put his all into it. 

He’s wearing black fitted trousers, his harness fixed to a black leather collar around his neck. Part joke, part testament. He’s owned now, and part of him wants everyone to know it. Besides, it suits the ‘tiger’ image. 

His opponent is slight, rather short but with steady, piercing eyes. Nothing Sebastian hasn’t seen before, but it gives him a risky idea, a horribly stupid and wonderfully thrilling idea. If this is the last time in a while he’s going to get to do something like this, he’s going to make the most of it. 

So he focuses in during the announcements, ignoring the crowd, and when the bell rings he doesn’t extract his weapons. His opponent (Sebastian dubs him Beady) clutches two short, sharp blades. Good for close contact, and he seems to hesitate when Sebastian doesn’t move. 

Instead he waits, watching, as Beady darts forward after reorienting himself after Sebastian’s odd start. He lunges forward, down and heading up, obviously going to end the fight quickly. Which means Sebastian’s intimidating him just by standing there, which is good. Sebastian waits for him to get close enough, before snatching one of his wrists and stepping to the side. Beady jolts forward with the momentum and Sebastian lands a kick hard in his back to send him sprawling on to his face. He still doesn’t extract his weapons. 

His blood is pumping now, through his ears and down to his fingertips. Beady drops one of his weapons on the fall and Sebastian kicks it off stage. He spares a glance to see the crowd going wild. Or well, the incredibly posh version, the numbers above them all were clicking rapidly upwards. No one bare handed it in the rings, especially not against an armed opponent. They probably assumed Sebastian was suicidal or just cocky. 

He can’t help his grin as Beady gets back up, teeth bloody from his face hitting the floor. Sebastian’s thick muscles don’t give the impression of martial arts and Sebastian rarely uses them. It’s more of a hobby than anything, spending some of his free time working on perfecting his kicks, strengthening his punches. He isn’t overly skilled, and going up against a real martial artist would result in him getting his ass kicked. It’s a freestyle method, some technique mixed with street fighting and this opponent was perfect to try it on. 

Beady circles him for a bit and Sebastian follows suit, faking forward to push Beady into a defensive stance, so Sebastian can put a fist into his face. There’s a blind slash that catches Sebastian across the chest, it would have gone into his stomach if the blond wasn’t in the process of crouching. Sebastian’s head is out of range for the second swipe. The solider kicks his leg out to knock Beady on to his ass, and lunges forward to pull the second knife out of his hand and knee him in the chest. 

Sebastian pulls back, stands and throws the knife away before he unfastens his harness, to hang it on one pole at the edge of the ring. He glances to the crowd when he sees a little movement, and freezes in place, his breath stopping. 

He’s dressed for business, just like when Sebastian had seen him the first time. And he’s just as fucking intimidating, even sitting a good thirty feet away in the stands. Sebastian has seen Jim in casual clothing for undercover, once notable time seeing him shirtless after he had to change due to an unscheduled bloodbath. 

Those black eyes are fixed on him, expression unreadable and Sebastian barely has time to process his own gut feeling of _oh shit_ before he’s kicked in the crotch. Beady had taken advantage of Sebastian’s distraction to take a cheap shot. Snapping back into the moment, Sebastian takes another hard hit to the nose before he can retaliate. 

He puts Jim’s presence from his mind before he dances to the side, feet light as Beady’s confidence comes back. It’s hesitance from both parties until Sebastian loses patience and takes the initiative, jumping forward and planting his fist into his stomach and then his throat, disorienting. He catches a foot in the side and focuses on breathing before locking his arm around the other and managing to put him in a strangle hold. He turns them slowly as Beady kicks and snarls, putting a little more pressure on his trachea. He faces Jim, locking eyes with him and quickly snapping Beady’s neck. The bells rings announcing his victory but he doesn’t hop out of the ring. Instead Sebastian collects his weapons and cleanly slices the head off the corpse, tossing it towards the crowd and relishing Jim’s little arch of a brow. 

Tossing his harness over one shoulder, Sebastian hops out of the ring and heads towards the back rooms, tense with anticipation. The rush of the kill is intense but mixed in with trepidation. Is Jim pissed that Sebastian blew him off to come here? Annoyed at Sebastian’s performance? He’d made it clear Sebastian wasn’t to do anything that would ruin Jim’s ‘investment’ in him, but he’d needed _something._

He doesn’t have any severely bleeding wounds so he skips past the medic and just goes into his assigned room, sitting down on one of the benches. He catches a reflection of his face and grimaces, his nose crooked and blood coating his chin and neck. Damn. 

He’s carefully resetting his nose when the door to his room opens, and he doesn’t turn around. Jim’s the only one who could get through security to come visit him anyways. These places were more secure than fort fucking knox. He finishes up his task and wipes his face before turning to see Jim waiting by the door. When Sebastian’s eyes were on him, Jim turned the lock, making Sebastian stifle a flinch. 

“I don’t believe I’ve made myself clear enough when I told you not to _actively_ try to get yourself killed.” Jim’s voice is soft, sweet, and Sebastian knows he’s in trouble now. 

Sebastian moves to the bench, lacing fingers between spread knees, watching Jim’s shoes as they advance, seeing the glint of silver indicating a gun in Jim’s hand. He’s braced for it when he’s pistol whipped and doesn’t resist as Jim yanks his head back by his short hair. 

“Sorry, Boss.” Sebastian finally responds, gritting it out through his sore nose and now cheek due to Jim. 

 “What the fuck was that, are you trying to make daddy mad, Bastian? Have I not been giving you attention?” The fingers in his hair tightened and Sebastian leaned into a bit submissively, exposing his throat to Jim. There’s a cold barrel pressed under his chin and he breathes every so carefully. 

“Didn’t mean to make you mad,” He grunts, “Needed to blow off steam. You haven’t been giving me anything challenging.” 

Wrong thing to say, given how Jim’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. 

“And instead of telling me about this, you ran off back to your old haunt to let someone slice you up. Unarmed.” 

Sebastian snorts, “Wasn’t any chance of me losing boss, only reason he got a hit in is because you distracted me.” He knows he’s pushing, but he likes that fire in Jim’s eyes. Likes that Jim came all the way down here to berate his stupid decision. So he grins, “Besides, I let everyone know I was taken. No need to be jealous.” 

Jim’s eyes flicker down to Sebastian’s collar and there’s a hint of warmth that curves Jim’s lips, a little forgiveness. 

“Fine. Do it again and I’ll make sure you're gutted in that ring.” 

Sebastian nods as he’s released, watching Jim saunter out. Sebastian collapses back on to the bench, palming his cock through the fabric of his trousers, jacking himself off quick and dirty to the memory of Jim’s hands on him, the hungry, angry look in this eyes. Fuck. 

He is so fucking fucked, he thought when his stomach was sticky with his own release, clean hand rubbing up over the deformed skin of his chest and face. He makes a good guard dog, it wouldn’t do to start getting stupid ideas. 

~~ 

_‘Ugly on the skin, but you're lovely from within.’_

_~~_

Sebastian is fucking exhausted. Sebastian’s first open act of defiance is a dull memory, two years, countless kills and many thrilling moments later, he collapses on his bed. 

After that conversation, Jim changed Sebastian’s assignments somewhat more on his skill level, more designed to suit his needs and his abilities. More diverse tasks, focusing on hand to hand combat especially, which Jim enjoyed watching quite a bit. Sebastian chalks it up to Jim being fascinated with Sebastian’s diverse skill set. 

Sebastian had moved in eight months ago. No warning, he’d just woken up to an empty flat, only his bed untouched, with a note stabbed into his wall, indicating his new address. That just so happened to be Jim’s address. 

From that point on, Sebastian was never out of Jim’s immediate sphere. They ate together, cooked together, Sebastian often dragged Jim out of his study when he’d been working too long or was starting to go a little more mad than usual. 

But right now he just got off a plane from Australia and Sebastian’s internal clock is fucked right up the arse. Turns out a few people who owed Jim had run to the outback and Sebastian had gone out to follow them. It was the first time in months Jim had sent him away. He had a thick scruff over part of his face, no hair growing over the burn marks, making him look a little insane himself. 

There’s bandages around his arm, and he wants nothing more but to sleep for a few days but obviously Jim won’t tolerate that. He gets a text ‘ ** _clean up_** ’ and groans as he sits, heading to the bathroom once he gets his feet under himself. He shaves and washes, re-bandaging his soon to be new scar, even giving his hair a bit of a trim to make it less wild. 

He doesn’t shave it anymore, Jim often winds his fingers through it for some reason or another, and Sebastian doesn’t want to risk those touches stopping, though shaving his head would be easier. 

Once he’s clean, within the minute he hears his name being called from Jim’s bedroom. He finishes towelling off his hair before heading over to the bedroom, narrowing his eyes a bit suspiciously at the slightly ajar door. It’s two in the afternoon and Jim is one of those freaks who considers bedrooms as places to sleep, that’s it. So why the fuck is he in there? 

Sebastian opens the door slowly, and feels his heart stop. Over the years, especially the last few months, Sebastian has seen Jim in various states of casual dress and undress. Things slip through, Jim couldn’t always dress like a super villain when living with someone, so Sebastian has the privilege of seeing him sleepy, in boxers and undershirts when he just wakes up. 

But this… Jim sat in the middle of his huge bed, legs tucked up under him, wearing one of Sebastian’s shirts that pools around his thighs. An old one, the sort Jim forbid Sebastian from wearing outside the house, comfortable and saturated with Sebastian’s scent. 

“Stop gaping and come here, tiger.” Jim had taken well to Sebastian’s pseudonym, using it like an endearment more often than not. Sebastian’s jaw clicks shut after he registers it’s been hanging open like a fish. He obeys, as always, advancing towards the bed. 

He hadn’t bothered to pull on more than a pair of boxers after his shower and Jim reaches forward to hook his fingers in them, pulling Sebastian right on to the bed and kissing him. 

No hesitance, no balking, no visible signs of bracing himself for kissing Sebastian’s horribly deformed face. And god, it had been… years since Sebastian had been kissed. Whores were never up to it and Sebastian didn’t give much of a shit, more concerned with getting his dick wet. 

And Jim’s lips are soft, sweet and easy. So very welcoming as Sebastian snatches him closer, something hot flaring up in him immediately. Years of desire come to realization in that moment, hundreds of urges, little thoughts and wants, all shoved down in the name of professionalism. To the though that Jim, gorgeous, sleek, brilliant Jim had much higher standards than his deformed guard dog. 

All tiredness is immediately set aside as Jim’s fingernails scrape down Sebastian’s back,making Sebastian growl into the kiss, deep and filthy. When they break apart for air, Jim flicks his tongue out to trace over the scar cutting through Sebastian’s lip. 

“There he is.” Jim teases softly, hands rubbing up Sebastian’s chest now, “Love your stripes.” Sebastian’s heart stutters again and he pulls Jim back into the kiss impatiently, his own rough palms exploring to slide up Jim’s milky thighs. Up farther to cup that perky little arse, cupping and massaging it, enjoying the feeling of _fucking finally._

Jim kisses him hungrily, pulling back to mouth down his neck, licking over his burns and flaws, sucking at the hollow of his collarbone and nibbling the thick line of raised skin from one particularly brutal encounter with a local militia group. 

It’s difficult to keep his mind about him, to focus in and return the favour, because fuck. Jim’s mouth is on him, his hands, how eager he seems to be to get a taste of Sebastian’s skin. It’s fucking with everything Sebastian thought about how the world works. 

When Jim’s hands dip down to grope inside Sebastian’s boxers, he finally gets his wits about him and shoves Jim back. The criminal doesn’t seem perturbed though, and just squirms up the bed helpfully lying back on the pillows. Jim spreads his legs invitingly, but all Sebastian gets out is, “What the fuck, Jim?” His cock is throbbing, and Jim looks good enough to eat but his paranoia is flaring up, “Did you take something?” 

Jim only laughs and puts one of his bare feet on Sebastian’s cock, giving it a little rub through his boxers. “Nope,” He pops the P, “Don’t make this difficult, Bastian. We both know you want it. Come fuck me.” 

It’s an order, so what can Sebastian do but obey? Sebastian crawls forward, the anticipation, the wonder at the situation, welling up in him and making him lean in and kiss Jim deeply, licking into his mouth before exploring. Shoving the shirt up and off, he bites at the pale length of his throat, before testing the sensitive of his nipples (moderate), but Jim squeaks and arches when Sebastian uses his teeth a bit on the nubs. 

He inches down the bed until he can get his mouth on Jim’s sweet little cock, Sebastian would guess five inches at first glance, wet and flushed pink at the tip, perfect for Sebastian to suck on. Sebastian puts his all into it, the fear that this is the only opportunity he’ll get making itself obvious as the blond sets to work sucking Jim’s brain out through his dick. 

Tonguing the slit, Sebastian slips one hand down to rub at Jim’s balls before going lower, one fingertip rubbing over Jim’s pucker. Which has Jim squirming a little, letting out a small whine. Eager bottom then, Sebastian feels the heat in his belly get more intense thinking about how tight and needy Jim will be under him, taking his cock deep. 

“There’s my good boy.” Jim sighs, eyes fluttering shut as he arches into Sebastian’s mouth. The older man pulls off to suck on his own finger before returning to the task, this time pressing a finger inside of Jim, curling it a little to rub over his prostate. 

That pale body shudders all over, delicate fingers curling in the sheets as Sebastian pleasures him from the inside and out. Jim comes quickly, which leaves Sebastian feeling proud and wondering how long it had been since Jim’s fucked someone. Probably longer than Sebastian. 

He kneels up and looks down on his boss, who is sprawled luxuriously, looking satisfied and grinning proudly up at Sebastian. “My gorgeous tiger, you’ve been so patient. Don’t worry.” He giggles and fuck, he’s sex drunk. Sebastian had sucked him so good that Jim is sex drunk and Sebastian’s pride swells exponentially in that moment. He even dismisses the obvious lie of gorgeous, knowing Jim just trying to praise him and damn it’s working. 

“Can I fuck you?” He asks roughly, and Jim gestures lazily towards the bedside table. Sebastian finds high quality lube but no condoms and Jim laughs at his look of confusion, 

“What, you think I made you wait this long just to make you wear protection. Come on, Bastian, fill me up.” Jim bends at the knee, placing his feet on the mattress to spread himself completely as his hand lazily goes to fisting his spent cock. 

Sebastian swallows, thinking about how long Jim might have planned this. Made him wait. How long had Jim known he wanted this? Which was a stupid question, he’d probably known since the say he met him that Sebastian would want him ferociously, make Sebastian wait until he had everything before giving him this. 

Two fingers and a good amount of lube is all Sebastian manages to get done for prep before Jim becomes impatient and kicks at him, leaving a bruise. 

But by that time, Sebastian is smiling, feeling less overwhelmed as he slicks up his cock. Pressing inside, it’s fucking blissful. He has to brace himself on his elbow above Jim, those strong, flexible legs wrapping around his waist as he presses forward. He buries himself deep, grinding his hips forward to get Jim gasping for it before he starts moving properly. 

He can’t resist biting at Jim’s shoulders as he fucks in, taking his sweet old time, letting his abs rub over Jim’s cock to give him enough stimulation to get him hard again. “You’re so fucking tight, boss.” he groans, and Jim moans, high and sweet, heels digging into his back, “So fucking good.” 

They move in tandem, years of being close, of learning Jim’s moods and ticks and wants, anticipating his desires before he even voices them, they’re all paying off now. He fucks Jim like the’ve been doing it for years, and only when the younger is making these breathy mewls does Sebastian finally increase the pace. 

Part of him wants to fuck him hard, wants to fold him in half and rip into him. But this, this closeness, nails in his shoulders as he can feel Jim’s moans against his lips, it’s too good to change. He pistons into him, strong and steady until he shudders, right on the edge. 

And Jim, wonderful, perfect Jim, frees one hand and squirms it between them to stroke himself, getting himself off. And the contractions, the hot, tight spasms of Jim’s walls have Sebastian locking up, sinking his teeth in deep to the muscle of his shoulder as he spills. 

He pulls out gently once he has his head about him a few minutes later, collapsing next to the other with a deep sigh, eyes falling shut. “Fucking hell, Jim.” He lets out a laugh, filled with disbelief as he tosses his arm over his own eyes, only to remove it to watch as he feels Jim’s hands on his chest. 

Rubbing over his scars, smirking with those dark, clever eyes up at him. “What?” He asks with a false innocence that has Sebastian chuckling again. 

“Just really glad I didn’t shoot you, that’s all.” 

Jim’s raised brow shows that he doesn’t follow Sebastian’s line of thought but doesn’t particularly care, just curling up on his chest. 

“Whatever you say, Tiger. Sleep.” 

~~

‘ _Oh, I love my ugly boy. So rough and tough, don’t care about anything but me.’_

_~~_

 


End file.
